Island Row

XL / Planet µ;
2002

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The latest effort from London's one-man Capitol K outfit is an elegant
stylistic cocktail that mixes indie pop and IDM (let's say the "I" stands for
"independent") without compromising either. The hybridization of rock and
electronic genres has become a fairly tired musical formula over the last
several years, but 26-year-old Kristian Craig Robinson executes with such
precision and innovation that Island Row leaves even the seasoned listener
slackjawed and struggling for comparisons.

K's music draws from a broad pool of influences, indicative of his
geographically scattered childhood. Maltese by birth, he divided his early
years between Dubai and Borneo, coming eventually to Britain for secondary
school. There, Robinson encountered American indie bands like Fugazi and
Sonic Youth, who inspired him to start his first band. His background gets a
bit hazy beyond that point, but his music suggests that, somewhere along the
line, he ate loads of psychotropic chemicals, picked up a few Rephlex records
and bought himself a Dictaphone. All these jumbled elements of his past echo
forcefully in his work, and more evenly on Island Row than any of his
previous outings.

Capitol K's recording legacy dates back to 1998, when he released a self-titled
12" on Elf Cut Records. Two of the four tracks from that record made the cut
for his full-length (the absolutely astounding Sounds of the Empire) on
Mike Paradinas' Planet \xB5 imprint the following year. Of that album, Mike
writes (and I concur), it "is still one of the best debut albums I have
heard." You might even care to scratch the word debut.

Material from these early releases hints only cautiously at Robinson's
rock-n-roll leanings. The follow-up Roadeater EP, issued in early
2000, signaled a shift toward a more balanced mixture of vocals, samples and
strumming. And Island Row carries the torch-- four of the 11 songs
here have proper lyrics, and nearly all feature a bit of guitar-work.

Still, the prevailing theme here is production; the inane, carnival-esque
noodlings reminisce of Mouse on Mars, while the occasionally caustic drum
breaks recall tunes from Autechre's Gescom side-project. But Capitol K brings
so much of his own flavor to the table that likening him to either of those
musicians would be misleading.

Exoticism becomes a key theme in Robinson's work-- not the token ethno-techno
exoticism of Talvin Singh or Badmarsh & Shri, who intersperse dull drum loops
with unimaginative sitars and tablas, and earn credit for "fusing" different
genres. It would be more appropriate to say today's world beat musicians layer
different genres, always conscious of which sounds belong to the East and
which belong to the West, and scarcely exploring any middle ground.

Capitol K breaks this mold, and stakes out a bit of sonic territory somewhere
in between. Reversed drum loops bounce between Eastern and Western time
signatures, while Robinson's candid falsetto brings urgency to even the most
saccharine lyrics. Out of context, many of the lyrics seem puerile, which is
probably what makes them so damn effective. It wrenches even my calloused
heart to hear K innocently cry the chorus of the opening track, "Heat." "I'd
like to know/ If you like the cold/ 'Cause when we meet/ I'll bring the heat."
On paper, it reads like a nursery rhyme, but the latent angst beneath Robinson's
voice tells a more frustrated story-- one of a lost passion.

"Pillow," which also made an appearance on Roadeater, seems the most
readily accessible song of the lot. Even while treading through bubblegum
turf, it manages to retain its edge and subtlety, thanks to Robinson's
production trickery. But gems lurk in the album's darker corners as well.
"Monster," as the name might suggest, can be at times difficult and abrasive,
matching heavy guitar distortion with esoteric Eastern melodies. Other
honorable mentions include "Breakers," "Lion Anon" and "Forgotten Duffle Coat,"
on which K collaborates with friend Leafcutter John.

The album loses points for two reasons, the most legitimate being that a
handful of the tracks feel disjointed. Capitol K's transitions tend to be
remarkably smooth, but there are several on this album (particularly on the
songs "God Ohm" and "Is It U?") that it seems he might simply have handled
better. The second complaint I'm obligated to lodge against Island Row
is a reprimand for the Prince cover, "Dance On." Robinson admits he intended
it as a joke, but thanks to American copyright laws, that joke prohibited
Americans from importing this brilliant record for nearly four months. I
could have done without the inconvenience, especially for this lackluster
song.

I hope I've done this album justice, but it's tough to tell when so many
terrible albums receive so much critical lip service. If my generic praise
leaves you with the impression that Island Row is generic music, do
yourself a favor and dig up some MP3s. These songs deserve to be heard.